


Chocolate

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Burn Notice: The Fall of Sam Axe (2011)
Genre: Explicit Smut, F/M, PWP, Praise Kink, Unprotected Sex, Yes I named him, use of "good girl"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: from the prompt "I wanna steal something from Veracruz's tent so he can chase me."
Relationships: comandante veracruz x reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Chocolate

_ She can’t resist a dare, _ some of the other female soldiers say about you.

They’re right.

You can’t. Never have been able to since Carina Morales dared you to ring Old Man Luis’ doorbell and run away when you were five.

You hadn’t been caught then, and you were  _ good _ at not getting caught.

Until today.

You run full pelt into the forest surrounding your camp, Commandante Rafael Veracruz’s chocolate stash tucked under your arm.

Private Gomez had seen him, late last night, smoking a cigarette and eating what looked like several squares of dark, expensive chocolate.

You, Gomez and a few others had shot the shit over breakfast, talking about that chocolate. Shouldn’t he share it, the selfish bastard?

You were secretly more interested in him sharing  _ other _ things with you.

His tongue. His lips. 

His cock.

And so when Gomez dared you to sneak into his tent and steal some chocolate, you’d battered up, no hesitation.

The large tent had smelled of him; the faint tang of cigarette smoke, his lemon-oil gun cleaner, and something half cinnamon, half sandalwood, that you could never quite name. You ignored the duffel bag of clothes, the neatly made camp bed. The stack of books in both English and Spanish briefly interested you; you hadn’t taken him for a reader, but his makeshift nightstand held  _ Moby Dick, Don Quixote, _ and  _ One Hundred Years of Solitude. _

You wanted to delve more; find out if he put notes in the margins, but you didn’t have time. You’d be missed soon enough as it was, Gomez never could make up an excuse worth shit.

You’d dived into the duffle bag, through some neatly folded underwear, another pack of cigarettes - an expensive brand - a little wallet of pictures, no time to look through that, sadly, - and finally the chocolate.

A shout rang out from somewhere beyond the tent and you’d scrambled out, ass first.

“What the  _ hell _ do you think you’re doing?” Veracruz yelled, and you’d sighed internally. It was time to run.

And so, you run.

You can hear him gaining on you, his long legs easily eating up the terrain. He probably looks hot even while running. Bastard.

Shame you can’t turn around to find out.

You’re almost home free, darting between the trees, and then your boot catches on a root that arches up from the ground, spelling your doom. The ground hurtles towards you, and you brace for impact, and-

“A thief should be better at evading capture, no?”

His mouth is at your ear, his breath coming in short pants. The carefully groomed heavy stubble around his face brushes your cheek, and you shiver, but not in fear.

The trees are closer together here. You hear no other footfalls, and you know no one else has followed the Commandate out here after you.

His arms stay tight around you. “What could possibly have tempted you to break into my tent, hmmmm?” he asks, low and stealthy in that voice made for sin, husky and compelling. “What could you want enough to earn my fury, little one?”

His stubble is tickling deliciously, and his voice is just on the sweet side of menacing. He’s always trod that fine line well, and it always turns you on. Unbidden, you press back against him, and electricity lights up your insides at the feel of him hard in his army fatigues.

“Are you going to tell me? Or…” He runs his palm up to your throat, wrapping his fingers around it, pressing gently. “Do I have to find out for myself?”

Now he’s pressing into you, his hips moving incrementally.

“Chocolate,” you whisper.

“Chocolate? You risk all this for  _ chocolate, _ hmmm? So desperate for a taste of something sweet?”

You release your left arm and the chocolate falls to the ground. You’ve no need of it now. You have what you really want right here.

You feel his head dip as he looks. He tuts. “And you did not think to simply ask?” His fingers caress your throat, gentle, teasing. 

You want more.

“Maybe I wanted a taste of  _ you, _ Commandante.”

He growls low in his throat, and you feel yourself getting wet. “And now? Now that I have you caged in, now that you are caught?” He’s still gently rutting against you, lazy almost, like he knows he could bend you over and fuck you any time.

“Now I want you even more.”

“ _ Fuck,” _ he hisses out, and turns you in his arms, releasing your neck and instead palming your ass. “The things I could do to you, out of sight of the others.”

You tilt your head to look up at him, see his beautiful eyes, the shade of the chocolate you stole, go dark and hot. 

“Do it.”

His gaze searches yours for a second, but he must find what he’s looking for, because he backs you up against the unyielding bark of one of the huge trees in this part of the forest, and pins your wrists above your head with one large, gun-callused hand.

“And you are going to be the wildcat, hmmm,  _ querida, _ or will you be a good girl for me?” He rasps, mouthing at your neck.

You’re panting a little now. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I think it is what  _ you _ want, no?” He bites down gently on your neck, making you keen. “You play with fire, little thief, and you get burned.” He presses his hips into yours and you moan out loud at the sensation, wanting to touch him  _ there, _ and you jerk your wrists.

“I think… not.” His grip on your wrists tightens, like a rope. “I think I will take what you so desperately want me to take.”

You hear the needy whine from your lips. Veracruz smiles slowly, like a tiger scenting the fall of its prey.

“Beg me.”

Your eyes widen for a second.

“Beg me, and use my name. I want to hear it from your lips.” He’s back at your neck again, one hand clenching your hip, the other still holding your wrists. His teeth skim and scrape, making you sensitive everywhere, his touch not quite tickling, but setting every nerve ending on fire with want.

“Com-”

“My  _ name _ . I know you know it.”

“ _ Rafael. _ ”

His breath hitches. He likes that.

“Fuck me, Rafael. Please.”

And that seems to break something inside him. He laves the tiny hurt on your neck and then his hand on your hip moves to yank down your combat trousers, taking your underwear with them, to your knees, and you’re against the tree, naked from the waist, the summer breeze making you only more aware of the wetness on your inner thighs.

Veracruz cups you intimately, sliding one finger inside, just, and it’s not enough.

“So wet,” he marvels. He gathers more of your slick on his finger, then lifts it to his lips, tasting. “Delicious,  _ no? _ See for yourself.”

He offers you his finger and you lick greedily.

He snarls.  _ “Fuck.” _ Then he drops all pretence of teasing and lets your wrists go, kneeling before you. He spreads your legs as much as he can given the trousers around your knees, and parts your folds.

You spear your hands into his hair, mess it all up, thread your fingers through the soft, warm strands. Sometimes his face goes hard, when he’s barking orders, but his hair is always soft; tousled, the warm brown of fine whiskey.

He groans something unintelligible as he licks at you. You lock your knees, trying to stop the trembling of your thighs, but it’s too much, you’ve wanted him for too long, and when he curls his tongue around that bundle of nerves, once, twice, you tumble over the edge, his name tripping from your lips like a prayer.

Veracruz works you through it until he’s wrung out every ounce of pleasure, until you try and fail to remember what your name is.

“Please,” you mumble, and he stands and kisses you, so softly you wonder if he’s the same man you’ve seen shoot deserters at point blank range.

“Good girl.”

And you come to your senses and drag him closer to you, shove your mouth against his as he frantically yanks down his military pants. He’s commando and the sight of him, long and thick and wet with his own arousal at the tip, makes you inhale shakily.

“Rafael,” you whisper, knowing now which button to press, and it works and he grips himself in one hand, braces the other on your hip, and thrusts into you with one long push, and the stretch is  _ divine, _ and you groan, your legs trapped. You want to wrap them around him but you can’t; all you can do is writhe against him as he fucks you just as he pleases, burying his face in the crook of your neck and shoulder, both hands on your hips now, holding you steady. You rise up on your tip toes and this pushes him deeper, touching a spot inside you no one has ever hit before, and you keen into his hair.

“Such a good girl, my little thief.” His accent deepens when he’s aroused like this, his voice huskier as he mouths at your neck, his thrusts getting more erratic. “How long have you thought about this? Touched yourself to the fantasy of this, hmmm?”

“Too long,” you groan. “Weeks.”

His hips stutter, and then he sets a  _ punishing _ rhythm, slamming into you so hard your muscles start fluttering around him. You dig your fingers into his shoulders and he growls in appreciation. “I want you in bed,  _ querida, _ naked under me, so that we can mark each other.” He’s panting now, breaths ragged. “Come with me.” He snakes a hand off your hip to fondle the bud of nerves at your apex, and then you’re flying, whimpering his name like an endless supplication as he fills you, his cock impossibly large and hard inside you.

You slump against the tree, and he catches you, just as he did when you tripped on the tree root. He holds you for a moment, and you turn your face into his neck and inhale him, chocolate, cigarettes, gun oil. A fatal combination.

“You have learned your lesson,  _ no, _ my little wildcat?” he whispers, his voice still sex-husky, and you shiver.

“Yeah. I learned I should sneak into your tent more often.”

He chuckles, tucks himself back in his pants and then pulls up your underwear and fatigues, more gentle than you would have expected. He presses a kiss to your thigh before righting your clothes. “And what will you steal next, hmmm?”

_ Your heart, maybe, _ you think. 

But you stay quiet. For now.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
